


Orchid

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Puberty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23101195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: Sebastian isn’t sure whether to be grateful or concerned when Earl of Phantomhive begins to develop of penchant for things more toothsome than sweets. The first sign of his quickening appetite is not what he says, buthow, experimenting with the whisper of a tenor in his throat like one would pluck at the strings of a harp. His voice is still boyish and sweet, but more than once Sebastian has seen Ciel’s lips twist in satisfaction when he’s managed to inject just the faintest hint of something in his requests.Bittersweet. Decadent. Dripping from Sebastian’s name like so much honey.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 32
Kudos: 152





	Orchid

Sebastian isn’t sure whether to be grateful or concerned when Earl of Phantomhive begins to  develop of penchant for things more toothsome than sweets. The boy is insatiable as ever, of course; noble or no, he still licks chocolate and whipped cream between the tines of his dessert fork when he’s certain that no one but his butler is present to witness. 

The first sign of his quickening appetite is not  _what_ he says, but  _how,_ experimenting with the whisper of a tenor in his throat like one would pluck at the strings of a harp. His voice is still boyish and sweet, but more than once Sebastian has seen Ciel’s lips twist in satisfaction when he’s managed to inject just the faintest hint of  _something_ in his requests. 

Bittersweet. Decadent. Dripping from Sebastian’s name like so much honey. 

Ever the devil, he recognizes Ciel’s curiosity for what it is, ears attuned to the roar of things left unsaid. Tempting though it is, he resists the impulse to call the Earl’s bluff; he knows how eagerly humans sup on desire when they’re not forced to learn how much of it is fear, and this new facet of the young master is too fascinating to risk him fleeing like a skittish colt. Adolescents are fond of experimentation and chewing on boundaries most of all, and so he savors Ciel’s bravado with a fangless smile. 

Irresistible though he may be, soul fragrant and mouth-watering with the perfume of blossoming lust, he still terribly human. Terribly impatient. 

Sebastian looks forward to seeing how long the Earl’s patience will last.

* * *

Two nights.

Two nights pass before cracks in the Earl’s patience begin to appear.

He can’t be blamed, of course; bodies are treacherous, their urges and whims quicksilver and defiant, moreso when they’ve just entered the spring of their years.

The little lord is no different, for all his frailty. After a particularly fitful bout of sleep, Sebastian is pleasantly surprised to have the source of Ciel’s dreams confirmed. He hears his own name as a muffled whimper, devoid of the usual venom; any doubts about what kinds of dreams the Earl might be having are swiftly dispelled as he notes a distinct scent and damp patch between Ciel’s thighs.

_How lewd, young master._

This particular aroma is new and, for a demon who garnishes their meals with all manner of debauchery, mouth-watering. Simply imagining the rich flush on Ciel’s cheeks at being seen this way, stained by his own lust, eclipses the pleasure of allowing him to simmer in his own humiliation.

He may be a demon, but he is a butler, however, and to risk Ciel being seen in such a state is unacceptable. And so he tends to the Earl’s indiscretion: cleaning sticky skin with a feather-light touch, changing linens and undergarments, all without rousing him from slumber.

He can’t resist the urge to leave a small token. 

Ciel went to bed with eggshell-colored undergarments and furrows his brow upon waking to find them a pale baby blue. His eyes flicker towards Sebastian in suspicion as the butler draws the curtains — he can  _feel_ the weight of the Earl’s gaze, firing a thousand unspoken questions against his back like so many pellets.

“Is something the matter, my lord?”

“… no. Just a bit tired,” he replies, lips settling into a poorly-disguised pout.

“Difficulty sleeping? Unpleasant dreams?” He can’t help himself; just a nibble of the boy’s shyness, pure like sugar cubes. 

“Neither. You’d do well to remember your place,” Ciel snaps, though not petulantly enough to mask the faint flush coloring his cheeks. “What I dream of is no concern of yours.”

_How little you understand of your own contract._

“My apologies, young master,” Sebastian says, bowing politely before rattling off the minutiae of the Earl’s itinerary — knowing from the crease in his brow that he’s not listened to a word of it.

* * *

Another night, another strange tingling on his brand and along his spine. He can feel the pull of their bond, their contract, dense and electric.

Most curiously, his prey has never asked about contracts — not since the night where Sebastian, then nameless,  danced among entrails, gleefully kicking teeth among the scattered gore like skipping stones.

The Earl has never asked, and so Sebastian has never had to find a way to answer, much to his disappointment. The rare glimpses of fear that the Earl has rewarded him with are _too_ rare for his liking; the boy forgets that his butler was named after a creature that nipped at his heels.

Were he kind, he would encourage the young master to learn a bit more about the ink and parchment his own soul was wagered on. He would find a way to weave ancient codes and magicks into a language the self-absorbed imp could comprehend.

Devils are not known for kindness, and so he allows Ciel to dictate the rules of a game he thinks he’s won. 

Ciel demands and Sebastian obeys with a sneer. Ciel cries out and Sebastian dutifully appears to grant whatever the little lord wishes of him, be it a rich  _gâteau au chocolat_ or a man’s brains stirred into strawberry jam. He can hear the call before it’s spoken; such is the nature of a contract, to feel the stirrings of desire or terror well before they’re fully realized.

_Indeed, how the spiteful kitten has stirred._

He knows the young master is dreaming about him, and even without a contract it would be difficult  _not_ to know in what fashion. He’s kept evidence of such dreams beyond the reach of the other servants, trusting neither their discretion nor competence in ensuring that the young master is kept blissfully unaware. He tells himself it’s for the boy’s own good, even while  he savors the duskiness of a secret left to marinate.

Except “the boy’s own good” is quickly beginning to pale in comparison to its sheer inconvenience. Ciel is, quite literally, calling out to him; he is contractually obligated to respond, even if the source of the boy’s urgency rests behind closed eyelids and soft, gasping breaths.

He’s not foolish enough to think that he’s expected to quell the nebulous lust making the Earl’s fragile bones quake. It would be easier if he was; as it stands, however, to sit idly while his contractor writhes and seeks friction against an unfeeling mound of bed sheets feels not unlike the early days of the boy wailing with hunger but refusing to eat the meals prepared for him. To be given a problem he’s unable to solve is maddening.

It would be far easier to resolve _this_ particular issue than most of the others the Earl presents to him. He’s had centuries to learn how to seduce, demure, and strum the notes of passion until his supper sobs from the pleasure of it. In spite of his intellect, the Earl is naive and human; to satisfy his urges would be, to borrow a particularly fitting idiom, “child’s play”.

While he feels no particular objection — it would certainly make for an interesting experience, seeing how such a recalcitrant little bud might unfurl — he knows that the Earl is not quite as fond of spitting on mores.  Relations between a master and a servant are reviled, to say nothing of those between a man and a boy. A man can easily overpower a boy, and a devil can rend the flesh from a man’s bones — and, he muses, in their perverse game of rock-paper-scissors, a boy holds the devil’s leash.

Sebastian watches silently as Ciel whimpers in his sleep, contract pulsing between them. 

Were he kind, he would provide the young master some measure of privacy. He would turn away, busy himself with anything that doesn’t involve the Earl’s bedroom, and quietly change the linens afterwards as he always has. He would clean the young master without disturbing his sleep and, once again, stitch together the loose threads of his self-control.

Devils are not known for kindness.

The creature before Sebastian, rutting against his pillow and seeking a crescendo he can’t name, is utterly foreign and enchanting: porcelain cheeks lacquered with arousal, hair damp with sweat, thin limbs trembling, fawn-like and uncertain, against blood stirring far too hot for such delicate veins. 

He risks the briefest graze of his bare fingertips against the Earl’s carotid, light enough to prevent him from stirring, but firm enough to feel his racing pulse, to taste madness still feathered and coated in its own yoke. 

“Se-Sebastian,” Ciel moans softly.

_Would that I could see what kind of pleasures I’ve wrought in his dreams._

Against the back of the devil’s hand, the contract  _burns_.

A demand unmet. A cry left unanswered.

Sebastian smiles, allowing his fingertips to trace a faint blue vein resonant with roaring blood. He leans close to the Earl’s ear, his voice more breath than sound.

“Such desperation is unbefitting of an Earl.”

* * *

Cerulean exchanged for navy. White exchanged for ivory. Hunter green exchanged for moss.

The Earl isn’t stupid; he knows that each morning, his undergarments are a slightly different hue than the night before — close enough to be ignored if he’s rested poorly, but different enough to note with the wakefulness granted by a strong cup of tea.

Sebastian has offered no explanation, which means that while not a cause for alarm, this is almost certainly his doing. His smile grows wider each time he catches the Earl’s gaze lingering on anything a bit too long. 

This morning is no different. Nothing in the performance of Sebastian’s duties differs significantly, let alone in a way that would warrant being addressed. Ciel is changed quickly and washed thoroughly. The curtains are drawn, tea is prepared, and breakfast is served the same way it always is: impeccably. Sebastian smiles placidly and apprises the young master of the day’s schedule. The dining table is set with a lovely, if bizarre, centerpiece of orchids and pomegranates.

The fact that there are differences at all tells him that they’re intentional, and that for all his feigned ignorance Sebastian  _wants_ him to notice. The air around Sebastian feels… denser, somehow, as though corrupted by the butler’s curiosity.  It doesn’t feel evil, exactly — he remembers how noxious and suffocating Sebastian’s presence felt when permeated by brimstone and malice. The aura lingers, dark and welcoming in a way that reminds him of opium dens.

Sebastian would never serve the same tea twice in a row, nor breakfasts with a similar motif, and yet today’s breakfast mirrors the day before’s too closely to be a mistake.

“Darjeeling again?”

Sebastian frowns theatrically. “Is it not to your liking, my lord?”

“It will suffice. I didn’t realize our coffers were running low enough to require such frugality.”

A small smirk, quickly drenched in pitch. “Duly noted. I shall ensure tomorrow’s tea is more stimulating. I hope today’s breakfast shall provide a well-deserved respite.”

“Sausages. Poached eggs. Spring greens with a creamy vinaigrette,” Ciel mutters, poking at the eggs with his folk until the thin membrane holding the yolk breaks. Sebastian’s perfectly arranged breakfast is marred, and he cannot help but smile at the small grimace that, for a brief second, likewise mars the chef’s features. 

“Do you not care for the greens?  Children can be quite sensitive to bitter flavors,”  Sebastian says, not unkindly.

There it is again — that kind of wicked playfulness that makes heat bloom in his stomach. There’s an aftertaste to Sebastian’s words, as though Ciel ought to recognize the flavor but has forgotten it.

_And Sebastian is trying very, very hard to help you remember._

“Is something the matter, young master?”

“I could ask you the same.”

Sebastian’s eyes widen, seemingly pleased — as though he’d hoped for such a response.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asks. The musical lilt of his voice is anything but sincere, and he knows it could never be mistaken as such. He sounds every bit the cruel feline that would play with its food.

“Don’t be glib. You know something.”

“About what?”

“Must I spell it out for you?”

“I didn’t realize the young master wanted  _me_ to dole out commands,” Sebastian drolls.

_I’d love to see you try,_ he thinks, biting his tongue lest the thought escape him. Such errant thoughts have been occurring more frequently, some more vividly than others. 

At what point did Sebastian’s features begin to deserve more than a passing glance? At what point did begin finding himself trembling under his butler’s dispassionate ministrations? At what point did the day’s curiosities cross over into the manic abandon of dreams? To his chagrin, far more than he’d care to admit have taken root in hitherto infertile soil — and, intentionally or not, his butler has unwittingly nourished those seeds.

_Except_ , he realizes with a start,  _rarely does Sebastian do anything by accident. Especially when it concerns me._

Orchids. Teas plucked at the first bloom of spring. Eggs barely hatched. Phallic meats and creamy sauces. Veiled remarks about bitterness and his own youth.

_“Such desperation is unbefitting of an Earl.”_

The eggs suddenly taste sulfurous on his tongue, the delightful silkiness of the yoke now loathsome and purulent. Ciel sets his fork down delicately, pushing the breakfast tray away.

“How long has this been going on? This curiosity of yours?” he asks, allowing the small grin forming on his lips to linger.

“Oh?”

“Coquetry isn’t your strong suit. Orchids and sausages… do you truly think I wouldn’t have noticed?”

“You wound me,” Sebastian says pleasantly, expression twisting into something closer to a leer. “Now why would I ever use such vulgar imagery?”

“Has an orchid germinated in your vile garden?”

Sebastian’s smile darkens. “Not mine, young master.”

He did not think it possible for a man to burst into flames, but there’s no other way to describe the terrible, all-consuming heat that flares in response. He feels it blossom in his cheeks, spreading along his limbs and torso. Instinctively he curls in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and the covers over his head as a useless shroud. He can still feel the unnatural intensity of Sebastian’s gaze even past the layers of fabric and skin, pulsing in time to the cadence of his heart.

“My lord?”

“You must find all of this terribly funny.”

“No more than anyone else would. It’s a sign of robust health in a well-nourished, growing boy; you should be pleased.” 

“I ought to be pleased that I’ve been tended to like an incontinent child without my knowledge?” Ciel snarls.

Sebastian reaches for the duvet, gently peeling it away from Ciel’s head; the gesture would be kind were if not the palpable glee at wanting to witness his shame. “You should be pleased," he repeats, “that, for all your troubles, you’re moving further from the sickly kitten who signed a contract without once asking how it worked.” 

_“_ How thoughtful. Why don’t you enlighten this ‘sickly kitten,’ then?”

“Sickly tomcat,” Sebastian corrects. “I trust you understand the difference?”

There’s something odd about the way Sebastian laughs, as if singing a song Ciel has never quite been able to hear before. The notes are murky and foreboding, but he finds himself keen to understand them.

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“What differentiates a kitten from a tomcat is their desire to mate. A tomcat makes his intentions known; and so has the young master, though not intentionally.”

“How  _dare_ you _—”_

“A tomcat without self-control is a nuisance, marking his territory and soiling things however he pleases. The poor creature cannot help being what it is. To neuter a tomcat is simple. To neuter a selfish young earl would be difficult,” Sebastian sneers, as if he would very much like to try. “However… an earl can taught to control himself.”

“What has any of this to do with a contract?”

“If you call for me, I’m required to respond. The contract does not require that you do so verbally or consciously; I respond the  _desire_ , not the words. If there's aught that my lord desires, I will hear his call.”

A flash of canines, an infinitesimal slackening of a facade cloaking three years of starvation. “Even in his dreams. And the young master has been _most insistent_ for the past several weeks.”

The pieces begin to fall into place. Though he rarely remembers his dreams, he had begun to wonder if there was not a pattern to his undergarments having shifted in hue every time his dreams about the butler grew bolder. 

“So you spared me the shame of having disgraced myself out of the goodness of your heart?” Ciel scoffs, pushing back the bed sheets.

“Hardly. As much as I enjoy seeing you covered in your own seed,” he grins, widely as though remembering something salacious, “I do feel some concern as to whether I can perform my other duties when you call for me at all hours of the night. Such is the nature of a contract with a rutting tomcat. I simply sought to ask said tomcat to cease his caterwauling.”

The end of his reply hangs, a hook begging something to be hung onto it — a suggestion, an opportunity. “Or?”

“Or… the young master could learn how to divert those energies to ensure more fruitful sleep.”

The suggestion is innocuous on the surface, but the butler’s words are molten and dense. The Earl may be naive, but he has spent enough time in dens of iniquity to know what is being suggested: a vile, crass act only necessary for those without the wherewithal to control themselves. 

“Mind your tongue.”

Sebastian smirks, savoring the particularly rich insult resting on said tongue. “Apologies, my lord. Rest assured that I will endeavor to prioritize the young master’s privacy henceforth.”

“See that you do.”

* * *

“Ahem.”

Sebastian’s utterance is quiet, but he knows the Earl is a light sleeper. Regardless of how pleasant his dreams may be, they are dispelled as easily as the fragrance of tea, and he takes pleasure in the few unguarded moments granted by a disheveled lord trying to grasp at the lingering tendrils. 

_Ah, it seems I’ve caught him just before fruition,_ he thinks, noting the cheeky peak in the covers between the Earl’s thighs.

"What is it, Sebastian?” Ciel says, tongue heavy with sleep. Sebastian is already at his nightstand with a glass of water — though, curiously, there is also a small bottle next to it filled with a viscous, colorless fluid. Ciel is fairly certain he’s seen most of the odds and ends within the estate, which makes him all the more uneasy that he doesn’t recognize it.

“You called for me, my lord.”

“I did no—”

“Are you quite sure?”

Sebastian’s eyes glimmer with garnet mischief, trailing just a few inches south of what would be deemed appropriate — though, damnably fond of toeing propriety, he does not look directly at the obvious problem.

Ciel doesn’t have to follow the devil’s gaze to know where it rests. “Out.”

“With all due respect, that would be unwise. You called for me. What would you have me do?”

“I would have you do  _nothing_ and leave.”

“And leave my master unsatisfied? I would be remiss not to guide you towards a solution.”

“Being what?”

“Releasing the tension, as it were. You are a clever boy, which leads me to believe that the only reason you have not is because you’re either uncertain or ashamed.”

Ciel smiles humorlessly, wincing as oversensitive flesh brushes against the sheets and cursing how even the most minor friction is enough to distract him. “And you think you know my own flesh better than I?”

Sebastian leans close, repressing a shiver of delight as he takes in the complex array of scents: the sharp tang of fear — and, stronger still, the unquestionable lushness of desire, of blatant curiosity. If he doubted the dare in the boy’s words, his scent left little doubt. He could hear the leporine racing of Ciel’s heart, could feel his own fangs sharpening in anticipation. 

_You play the role of simpering prey entirely too well._

“I know so, my lord. Do I have leave to remove my gloves?”

“You may,” the boy says, eyes wide as he watches the butler remove both gloves and fold them neatly beside the unfamiliar bottle, each movement unnaturally graceful and hypnotic _._ Sebastian sits delicately at the edge of the bed, slowly peeling back the covers until Ciel’s interest, almost prim, rests like a beacon in the sea of cloth between them. Ciel, instinctively, reaches to cover himself, only to find a cool, pale hand capture his own and pin it softly, but firmly, above his head.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Sebastian says, voice soft and honeyed — and, Ciel notes, devoid of the usual undercurrent of mockery. “Please, allow me.”

Ciel nods, taking a breath he hopes is deep enough to purge the queer electricity making his hands shake. Logically, he knows the butler will not — cannot — harm him, yet some primal, childish thing within him wants desperately to cover his indiscretion, to hide his face in the covers — anything but let Sebastian see his Earl look so weak.

He clenches his eyes shut, feeling rather than seeing a gentle hand pull his undergarments down — not enough to undress, but enough to reveal. Sebastian’s hand is surprisingly gentle, lingering where it could have been brisk, stoking fire that could have easily been allowed to cool to embers. The devil’s hand caresses and circles around his thighs, his fleshy stomach — everywhere but his arousal now exposed to the frigid air. He finds himself keening, writhing minutely for friction before he can suppress the impulse, suffocating from a strange, sweet kind of fever. Shameless, repugnant — and yet he cannot stop himself, as though his mind and body are rent in twain.

“Se-Sebastian, please don’t look at me like this,” he stammers, throwing the arm not captured by the devil over his eyes — a pitiful shield, as though he could escape Sebastian’s ever-present gaze.  Even now, he finds himself caged, one of his hands trapped in his iron grip as Sebastian’s body — seeming impossibly large,  _deliciously_ imposing — hovers above him. 

He isn’t sure if his short, gasping breaths are terror or desperately needing Sebastian to relieve the ache. Nothing in his turbulent dreams had prepared him for utterly weak he would feel, more fragile than candy glass, nor how much it would excite him. He bites his lip, swallowing a surprised moan as a single finger strokes along his shaft.

“You have  _nothing_ to be ashamed of, young master,” Sebastian repeats. Ciel should be terrified to hear the whisper of ravens’ feathers and the heat within the butler’s eyes behind his own closed lids, and yet something irreverent and reckless yearns for them like one might lap at the keen edge of a knife. 

“It’s… disgraceful,” Ciel whines softly as a single finger becomes two, stroking lightly and wrapping ever so gently around him. He shifts his hips minutely, thrusting into the makeshift crevice. “For an Earl to be seen like this.”

Sebastian laughs quietly, a huff of warm breath that makes the hair on Ciel’s neck stand up. “By whom? The butler who serves you? A devil for whom the pretense means nothing?”

“Either.” A low pant as Sebastian’s hand fully wraps around him, fully pleasuring the precocious instrument and easily rousing what little hadn’t been coaxed. In some distant corner of his mind, Ciel finds himself grateful that he can do as he pleases into a hand large enough to not take offense. A long silence follows, punctuated only by poorly-masked whimpers and the lewd percussion of flesh engulfing flesh. 

“In situations such as this… perhaps you may consider not being an Earl. Allow yourself to be whomever you think could enjoy such acts,” Sebastian says thoughtfully, even voice at odds with the crude work being made with his hand. “Make-believe, if you will.”

“Y-you cannot be serious,” the Earl pants, voice drifting an octave higher into a moan as Sebastian tightens his grip.

“Oh, but I am. An Earl using the obsequience of his servants for ends such as this would be ghastly, after all.”

“I cannot possibly—”

“You belittle your own imagination, _boy.”_ Sebastian does _something_ with his hands that makes constellations erupt beneath the Earl’s eyelids, choking on his own breath. “You’ve called me all manner of things when you assumed sleep would deafen my ears. Shall I remind you?”

“N-No—”

“’Master,” Sebastian recites, voice breathless in the way that a needy schoolboy’s would be. “Teacher. Brother. Sir. Father.” Each word — punctuated with a low, mocking pant and delicious stroke of the devil’s hand — feels like Ciel’s own flesh, dripping with shame, being ripped from his chest — and yet Sebastian’s hand is hot and damp with his own lust, and he cannot stop himself from clawing towards the peak he knows the butler is guiding him to. 

“Stop it—”

“And yet the thought makes you tremble, doesn’t it? To be the sweet, delectable morsel captured by some cruel master’s teeth?” The butler’s voice is coarse with hellfire and damnation, white-hot flame,  and Ciel is reminded with every greedy thrust of his hips that men are little more than bone wrapped in kindling. He can feel himself being dragged further from shame and propriety with every passing moment,  _wanting_ to feel the claws wrapped around his ankles as he’s pulled under.

“Sebastian—”

“You’re holding back,” he chides. “Say what we both know you’re dying to.”

“S-Sir,  _please—”_

“Very good,”  Sebastian says quietly, quickening the pace of his strokes until all there is left is for Ciel to fall apart at the seams, crying out wantonly and spilling lust like so much unspooled thread in the devil’s grasp.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, comments and constructive critique are welcomed. This fic is the first of a series, so I appreciate your patience!


End file.
